


All I Want For Christmas Is You

by ohsodirnty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:06:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2826098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohsodirnty/pseuds/ohsodirnty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Jim's death and disappearance, Sebastian finds Christmas hard, but Secret Santa at work harder.<br/>Mommor Secret Santa gift for bakerstreet-boyz</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want For Christmas Is You

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Anna (bakerstreet-boyz)
> 
> I hope this finds you well and that you, of course, enjoy it!
> 
> Lots of holiday cheer,  
> <3 Ren (ohsodirnty) xoxo

All I Want For Christmas Is You

If there was ever a man to not believe in magic, it was Sebastian Moran.  If there was ever a man who didn’t really celebrate Christmas, you guessed it.  
The sniper spent his Christmas Eve in front of the fire with a glass of Jameson’s in hand – an early gift to himself, if you will. Some shit black and white film playing quietly whilst he fell in and out of sleep, cheeks turned pink from the warmth. But as the later hours of the evening drew round, he found his mind slipping into wishful thinking – quickly shot down by years of pessimistic training – nothing good happened and why should Christmas be any different?  
The time leading up to the holiday was perhaps worse than currently sitting in a room alone. Whist he mooched the isles of his local superstore on his weekly shop, trying to block out Jingle Bells, there seemed to be a never ending stream of too-happy people, out shopping for their loved ones. Mr & Mrs Santa shirts, matching jumpers of the festive persuasion and worse of all: Jim’s favourite whiskey was on sale.   
No,  _wait_. Worse of all was the Secret Santa at his new, nine-to-five, three day a week work place. He’d asked not to participate in any part of it, but his team leader had insisted.  
“Oh, it’ll be  _fun!_ ”  
“I really doubt it…” He’d muttered, pausing his typing to send an under brow look. The kind that would have led to a very harsh scalding from Jim.  
“I’ll put your name in the hat anyway!” and that was that.  
With a blink, thoughts of his long gone, ex-boss went; another perk of his self-disciplinary training.

  
Now there sat a perfectly wrapped gift under his pathetic excuse for a tree. Really, it deserved better. It was a decent sized box, about the size of Sebastian’s forearm; as long as it was wide, about four inches deep. The wrapping paper black, matte and modern; a red, thick ribbon tying round all four sides and fastened with a bow. Like something from a Grimm Bothers Fairy-tale. In a drowsy state, Sebastian stared at the lonesome box, sure it’s fancy wrapping would just be over compensation. Inside would be some cheap gift, socks or a body wash gift set. He’d be grateful for either and hoped the woman he’d been lumbered with liked her Tiffany’s picture frame. He was sure, even more than what his received gift was, that a picture of one of her many cats would soon be proudly placed in it.  
A man with more money than sense, he knew, but what was he supposed to do with it? He’d been paid a small fortune by Jim for his few years work, it was enough to live and fuel all his habits, his office job just gave him something to do with his weekdays. After Jim, no other work in that field had seemed worthy of his time, it all seemed a little dull and well, too sane. Placing the empty tumbler down, his eyes slipped shut in the dark and warmth, the ghost pressure of a blade to the throat sending him into sentimental, nostalgic dreams of a dark eyed Irishman with an affinity for pocket knives.

Awaking to a slight headache and cold extremities, the screen of the TV announcing that the channel would return at 12pm was the only light in the room now. Getting up with a huff, Seb carried himself to bed for a more comfortable few hours of sleep, covers pulled over his head.  
At a more reasonable hour, he wandered down for a slice of toast and a few cups of coffee. After brunch, the fire was relit and TV back on, but it offered no distraction to the gift. With a sigh, Sebastian gave into his curiosity and fetched the box, siting back on the couch, turning it slowly between his palms. He gave it a little shake, as if that could decipher what it contained. His fingers carefully set to work undoing the ribbon and peeling the paper off, cautious not to rip the neat wrapping, almost as if in respect for its appearance. Clear effort and care had gone into it; it was only fair, in his mind, that he return it. The alien feeling of excitement bubbling in his chest brought a smile to his lips, albeit a manic one, but a smile all the same. The paper off and carefully placed aside, a plain brown box sat in his lap. His hands caressed the sides before he pushed the lid up, eyes sparking with anticipation.    
There, on a bed of red tissue paper, lay not socks and nothing remotely like a body wash gift set. No, what sat there, gleaming in the dull midday light of the room, was a Beretta 92FS, its cold silver lines too familiar. The warmth in his chest had been suddenly pissed on. His fingertips deadening as they stroke the gun, a lump slowly forming in his throat as the weight of it settled, the humming and whistle that had risen in his ears drowned out the noise of the TV and fire. It had to be a sick joke… it couldn’t be anything other than that.  
  
He turned it – the gun James Moriarty had ended his life with – in trembling hands. It had to be a joke. It couldn’t mean anything… no one at work knew who he was, not really. How could they? That was the past, the only thing he shot now were clay disks at the weekend, just to keep his aim up to scratch. _No._ Throwing the gun back into the box, he shoved it onto the floor, landed with a heavy thud.  
In a fluid movement, he was on his feet, hands clenched at his side as he paced to his connecting kitchen. A large glass of Jameson’s poured; he took greedy gulps that burnt his throat, making him splutter some as he blinked back tears. If they were of anger or upset, he didn’t know.  Another glass poured and bottle in hand, he collapsed back into the couch, shaking his head as he sipped his drink more. It was just a joke, he knew, though he wished it was a bad dream. He wished it had been a body wash gift set, or socks. He wished for a lot of things, very quickly, in that moment.  
  
Maybe someone was sending him a message? Maybe… maybe they were hinting at him to go out the same way his boss had. But with a two year wait, it hardly seemed like a well thought out threat. With a frown, he scooped up the open box, the gun put to one side whilst he rummaged through the red paper. He found what he was looking for eventually, pressed to one side of the box: a note. Black ink, spider scrawled on thick white card.

 __  
Sebastian,  
_Clean her up and remove the blanks, they’re a couple of years old now._  
_Merry Christmas._  
_-JM_

Breath caught in his throat, the lump returned. After the whiskey was set down, Sebastian picked up the pistol for the second time and inspected it with scrutiny. The engraving of Jim’s embellishment by the top of the grip was all he needed to see. His gun, the exact…one…  _blanks_. Magazine ejected, Sebastian examined the few bullets that remained there. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut, harder than ever before. A nauseating feeling swam in the pit of his stomach, rising to his neck. Once again, the sniper threw the gun into the box, knowing the safety was on, before wiping his shaking hands on his shirt. His chest rose and fell as he choked on the stuffy air around him, his lungs felt too small, the room spinning. He needed air. With a start, he lunged out of the couch and sprinted to the door, flinging it open only to freeze as the cold, London winter air hit him. He had gone insane, that was the only reasonable explanation here. He’d finally cracked; he was a little disappointed at that, in the back of his mind – he’d expected to be undone by something more substantial than a pistol.

Jim Moriarty stood, black coat shrouding his small frame, with a raised fist, his dark eyes, utterly bored, burnt into Sebastian’s.  
“Aren’t you going to invite me in, Tiger?” He drawled.  
“No…” Sebastian choked out, shaking his head stiffly.  
“Sorry?” _This can’t be happening._  
“You… you’re…” _It’s all a nightmare._  
“Freezing, let me in.” Jim snapped and the last string in Seb followed. Everything felt as if it was crumbling around him and the only thing he could focus on was Jim’s expression, gradually growing impatient. Numbly, Moran stepped to one side for the other to enter, the slow realisation dawning on him…  
“Jim?” Sebastian croaked, closing the door behind them both, the outdoor cold still clinging to his shirt and sweat pants. The Irishman was too busy inspecting his surroundings to take notice of the other, it would seem, as his gaze travelled around the sparse walls, eventually falling on the abandoned gift.  
“Have you eaten yet?” He inquired, leaving a bottle of wine on the couch as he shruged his coat off, revealing dark pants and pine green jumper, white shirt collar just visible. Sebastian couldn’t help but stare as the supposed-to-be-dead man moved around his living room.  
“What…?”  
“Food, have you eaten it yet?”  
“No… I heard… why do you care?”  
“I was only asking, no need to get tetchy.”  
Sebastian barked out a humourless laugh, “I… fucking hell, I can’t believe you.” He muttered, running a hand down his face as he returned to the couch, the feeling in his stomach turning into something heavily nauseating. He needed a smoke. Maybe a drink. Possibly both.  
Jim picked up a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the coffee table, chewing them as he watched Sebastian in return, his brow slowly rising.  
“I thought it was a nice surprise…” He shrugged in return through chews.  
“…Two years, Jim…  _two years_  of radio silence and you turn up on my fucking door step, on Christmas day,  _uninvited_ and wonder why I’m  _tetchy?!”_ He let out a groan after this was off his chest, hand covering his face as he sunk into the couch. The distancing steps made him sit up and glance behind himself to see Jim pulling his coat back on. “What… Jim… What, no, wait-“ It was Moriarty’s turn to bark out a laugh, cold and much more harsh than Sebastian’s.  
“Make up your mind.” He ordered sharply, hands shoving into his coat pockets, waiting.  
A few long beats of silence followed before Sebastian let out a slow sigh.  
“I haven’t eaten.”  
“Do you want to?”  
“…Not really.”  
“Well, what do you want?”  
“You.”  
With that, Jim’s shrugged his coat back off, his face a mask as he hung it up and kicked his shoes off, padding round the couch in his socks before moving the bottle to the floor. Sebastian positioned himself lying down, Jim curling by his side, face eventually nuzzling into his neck. Cautiously, Moran moved his hands down Jim’s back, eyes pricking and lips pressed into a thin line as he came into contact with the small, warm body that was wrapping around him.  
“Did I see Jameson’s on the side?” Jim muttered after some silence, his lips curling against Sebastian’s neck.  
“Yeah…”  
“Do you want to finish the bottle with me later?”  
“Yes please, Sir.” Sebastian hummed in content, eyes falling shut as he holds the other close.  
As the fire crackled beside them, he couldn't help but think, at the very back of his mind, that maybe, just maybe… there was something slightly magical about Christmas, his new favourite holiday.

 


End file.
